


A Small Measure of Peace

by RollTodd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, But Ghost is still kicking, F/M, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon and Daenerys have a happy family, No dragons, Three kids (Aegon Lyanna and Aemon)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:37:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RollTodd/pseuds/RollTodd
Summary: Fourteen years have passed since the people of Westeros banded together to defeat the Army of the Dead. The Seven Kingdoms have found peace and prosperity under King Jon, Queen Daenerys, and their three children Aegon, Lyanna, and Aemon.Yet as the young Prince Aegon rides north to foster with his aunt and cousins at Winterfell, shadows of the past gather in the far places of the world... and the drums of war thunder once again.





	1. North and East

**Author's Note:**

> Well! I'm not really sure where this came from but here we go. This is not a sequel to "Home". In many ways, it will be different. Maybe more fun and more adventurous! Like the Hobbit when compared to The Lord of the Rings.
> 
> One of the things I'm taking from GRRM's work is what I'd call "the last gasp of magic". Thus, in this story the dragons are gone for good, the Last Greenseer fell in the War for the Dawn, and the Red Priests' fire burn low. It will be a story driven by characters both old and new. 
> 
> I'm not going to unwrap everything in one chapter, or even five, so things like Arya's whereabouts are known to Jon but will be revealed to you all in good time.

**Jon**

 

The summer sun rose swiftly over the capital. Golden light filtered through the wispy silk curtains of the massive bed and fell upon Jon’s face. He was already awake, of course. Sleep had never come easily to him and the demands of ruling seven kingdoms required many late nights and early mornings.

Beside him, Daenerys stirred and mumbled in her sleep, turning away from the rays of sunlight. Her rest was well-earned, for even as she bore the weight of her crown she had borne him three healthy, beautiful children. _My family and my home._

For this was home, he knew. _In bed beside her on a calm summer morning_. There had been hundreds of mornings like it – thousands in truth – for fourteen years had passed since those terrible wars had ended.

For fourteen years, they had struggled to rebuild a realm torn asunder. They worked together and ruled together, facing famines and upstart lords and angry foreign dignitaries. Tyrion had served as their Hand for the first decade before leaving to see to his own affairs and family. If his ravens were to be believed, his young daughter was already taller than he was.

There had been little doubt who would replace him. Samwell Tarly had ridden up the Roseroad within a fortnight of Jon’s asking him to serve, bringing the boy Sam along with him to court. Even as he lay abed, Jon knew his friend was already at work in the Tower of the Hand, shuffling mountains of scrolls around his table and setting the realm right.

There were other affairs to see to this morning, though. Affairs that required not a crown, but a father’s patience and wisdom. Aegon, their firstborn, was to travel north today to foster with his aunt and cousins at Winterfell. Sansa had been coolly accepting of the proposal, but Jon was certain he had heard her four sons shouts of excitement carried south on those cool northern winds.

Smiling at the memory of his old home, he rose quietly from bed and walked to the mirrored glass across the room. The tiled floor felt cool on his bare feet and a warm morning breeze blew from the windows, pulling playfully at his loose black curls. He cupped his hands and dipped them into the silver bowl by the mirror, splashing the sleep from his face with cool water.

His eyes found his reflection. _Fourteen years…_ He could scarcely recall what the Bastard of Winterfell had looked like. His face was lined now, crossed with faded battle scars and signs of recent worrying. Grey eyes looked back at him – eyes that had seen pain and loss and love. _My mother’s eyes. My daughter’s eyes._

With grey eyes and dark brown hair, Little Lyanna looked more like her namesake than Jon cared to admit. At twelve, she was wild; already better with the bow and in the saddle than her older brother. She often teased “Egg” when she bested him at either. Daenerys always joked that her only daughter was not that at all, but some Dothraki babe who had been smuggled across the sea.

He turned and looked back as his wife. Her face had changed little enough over the years. If there were imperfections, he did not see them. As he watched her, she stirred and opened one tired eye. A soft smile spread across her face.

“Good morning,” he said.

“You’re already up,” she said as she pushed herself upright in bed. Her long silver hair fell around her shoulders, covering her bare breasts.  

“It’s a big day,” Jon replied. Daenerys’ face fell. _She doesn’t want him to go._ She never had. It had taken Jon, Sam, and Tyrion the better part of a year to convince her that sending her eldest child to Winterfell would be good for the boy – and good for the realm. The people would see their prince. The prince would see his people. 

Jon understood her reluctance. Fear did not come easily to his queen, save where her children were concerned. _How many children has she lost?_ There had been Rhaego first, all those many years ago. _Then Viserion._ Jon could still see the dragon’s ruined body breathing blue fire in the thick of battle. _Then Drogon and Rhaegal too._ The dragons had fallen in the midst of that chaotic battle with the dead, with Bran and tens of thousands of others… He pushed those grim thoughts away. Today was to be a happy day.

“It is,” Daenerys agreed as she rose from bed and walked to his side. “How far will you ride with him?”

“The Crossroads, perhaps. No farther than that. He’ll want to be alone.”

“Jorah will ride with him, though,” Daenerys said. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard escorting the prince had been a condition of the journey.

“All the way to Winterfell, aye,” Jon said. Laughter rung out from outside their chambers, light and airy and childlike. Jon smiled at Daenerys and tilted his head at the door. “I suppose we should dress.” 

They did. Jon garbed himself in a soft linen shirt and breeches. Daenerys slipped into a blue silk dress that left little enough to the imagination. While neither would dress this way when sitting the throne, comfort reigned supreme in their own apartments.

Together, they walked out into the airy central room. A warm summer breeze blew in from the balcony overlooking the city and bay beyond. The table had already been set, piled high with the family’s favored foods: fried eggs and brown bread; fresh fish and fruits from Dorne and the Reach; bacon and sausage and little wheels of cheese from the farms just outside the city.

Their younger son was already seated there in his usual spot beside the columns. At only seven years, Aemon was a quiet boy – much as Jon had been in his youth. Yet that seemed the only difference between he and his elder brother. In all else, they were the same. Where Aegon went, Aemon followed. Where it not for seven years’ difference, Jon might not have been able to tell the difference between his two sons.

“Good morning, my sweet,” Daenerys said sweeping around the table and planting a kiss on her youngest’s brow. Her affections did little to ease the frown on his face, but they certainly made it redder.

“Mother…” he said hesitantly as he squirmed in discomfort.

“Yes?”

“Can I go North too? With Egg?”

Daenerys drew away and sat beside her son. They had both expected the question. “Who would take care of Ghost if you left?” she said in jest. Aemon did not laugh. Daenerys sighed and leaned toward him. “When you’re of age, Aemon, then yes you may go.”

“Why not now?” he said, reaching for a fresh roll of bread and dejectedly picking at the crust.

“The people here will need a prince to look up to,” Jon moved forward to sit on the other side of his son. “With Aegon away, that duty falls to you.”

Aemon’s violet eyes lit up with that. “Truly?”

“Aye, truly,” Jon said. His son’s frown faded away like the ocean mists before a swift sunrise. “Now, where are your-”

The door across the room slammed open. The boy who strode in might have been Aemon, but he was taller, his silver-blonde hair longer, and his violet eyes shone with a bold gleam. He wore a fine doublet with twin sigils upon either breast: The Direwolf of House Stark on one side and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on the other. He wore fine breeches, high leather riding boots, and a radiant smile.

Prince Aegon’s sister followed him into the room. In every way that Aegon looked the perfect prince, Lyanna looked nothing like a princess. Her hair was untidy and disheveled. Her clothes were worn and patched. The sight of her standing in the doorway reminded Jon of his younger sister.

“Hello mother,” Aegon smiled at Daenerys. “Father,” he inclined his head to Jon as he moved to sit beside him. Lyanna circled around the other side of the table, snatching and biting into an apple as she found the remaining seat across from her brothers.

Jon looked at his family. Even now, even after all these years, it felt like a moment stolen from another man’s life. His sons’ smiles, his daughter’s laughter, his wife soft touch, these simple things made the crown light upon his brow.

“So,” Jon said as he heaped bits of fish and bacon on to his plate. “Are you ready to brave the wilds of the North?” Lyanna guffawed. Aemon pushed the remains of a fried fish around his plate with his fork. Aegon sat up straighter in his chair.

“Yes! Will I get to go beyond the Wall?” his violet eyes lit up with excitement. “Robb says we can ride there in a week or less. He says there are still direwolf pups up there. He says the Others left swords of pure ice in the Haunted Forest and-”

“I want a direwolf pup,” Aemon complained.

“I want an ice sword!” Lyanna exclaimed.

“Your cousin’s tales are as tall as the Wall itself,” Daenerys laughed into her cup.

“Those are not our lands,” Jon told his son. “The Free Folk fought with us in the wars, aye, but they’re a different people. You’ll see the North, though. Winterfell and White Harbor and the Wolfswood.”

“Or maybe you’ll sink into the Neck on your way up there, knowing how you ride,” Lyanna spewed out bits of chewed fruit in a new fit of laughter.

Aegon’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be in the North while you’re stuck here,” he shot back. That stopped her laughing.

“Enough, both of you,” Daenerys sighed. “Enough. Eat your food in peace for once. This is the last time you’ll see each other for a year or more. Don’t you want happy memories of each other?”

“No,” they said in unison. Daenerys looked to Jon for aid.

“Lyanna,” he said firmly.

“Father?” She looked up, her grey eyes wide with newfound innocence.

“Run along and find Ghost, would you? I think he’d enjoy riding alongside me today and I know he likes you best. Bring some bacon to lure him out into the yard.” His daughter was clever enough to see she was being dismissed for causing discord at the table, but she held her head high and smiled as she accepted the task and ran from the room.

“And you should eat,” he turned to Aegon with a fatherly gaze. “You’ve a long journey ahead.”

The four of them settled into the mound of food before them. Daenerys picked at grapes and talked softly with Aegon of the River lords; their names and lands and words.

Jon bit into a piece of warm bread and looked out over the city. The sun was higher in the sky now. Waves of heat rose in shimmering columns from the Street of Steel. _Half a million people in this city,_ he thought as his eyes scanned the hundreds of rooftops. _And millions more outside these walls._ Aegon would see many of them soon enough. He would understand the weight of the crown.

 

**Daenerys**

 

The rest of the morning seemed to rush past her in a flurry of activity. Horses were saddled in the inner courtyard of the Red Keep while Aegon rushed around the broad corridors, bidding farewell to old friends, sparring partners, and councilors. Young Sam had almost crushed the prince’s ribs in a fierce farewell hug.

A hurried flock of courtiers shadowed his every move. _Fathers,_ Daenerys rolled her eyes as she watched from where she stood across the way. _Trying to push their daughters in front of him before he rides off._ Not a day went by when she and Jon did not receive some proposal of marriage or pact for any of their children. She declined them all.

Marriage could be a necessity, of course, but she would not see her three children sold off to secure alliances and promises of armies. No, they would follow their hearts – in as much as a prince or princess of the Seven Kingdoms could. _It was that way with Jon and I. Why should fate not smile on the rest of my family?_

“Your Grace?” a well-muscled knight of the Kingsguard paced toward her, his golden visor lowered as if ready for battle. It did not matter, she knew the voice.

“Ser Podrick,” she greeted one of her seven.

“The king has called for a gathering in the courtyard, Your Grace,” he said, the steel muffling his words. “I believe they mean to ride soon.”

 _And then I shall not see him for  year or more,_ she thought to herself as she walked through the bright and airy halls toward the courtyard. Aegon had been born in Winterfell in time of war. She had always kept him close; had worried about him as she never did the other two. Such was a mother’s right – especially one who had already lost so much.

As she walked, she glimpsed a streak of white out of the corner of her eye. “Lyanna,” she called out. Slowly, almost reluctantly so, her daughter rounded the corner with the great white direwolf in tow. She looked slightly more like a princess now, her hair braided like her mother’s and her worn clothes traded for a loose leather jerkin. “Your father and brother are leaving soon. You will accompany me and wish them a safe journey.”

The girl’s face contorted into an odd frown for the briefest of moments before she adopted a pleasant smile. “Of course, mother,” she said, bringing Ghost along and falling in line behind Daenerys. _And to think I considered taming Drogon and his brothers was bitter work._

Missandei and Aemon met them at the columned entrance to the yard. Together, Daenerys and her two younger children crossed the courtyard to where Jon and Aegon stood beside the royal stables. The grooms hurried to calm the royal mounts as Ghost padded around the enclosure.

“We’re to ride soon, mother,” Aegon said, his voice barely containing his excitement.

“I know,” she told him. “Take care and be careful. Follow your father’ advice and Jorah’s after his, hmm?” She stepped toward him and placed a kiss on his brow. “I love you.”

Giggled echoed across the way from the arcades that flanked the entrance to the hall. Aegon’s face reddened and he hung his head in embarrassment, but Daenerys did not care in the slightest. _A mother’s right._

“Lyanna, Aemon,” she addressed the other two, “say goodbye to your brother. It’s almost time for him to leave.”

“Goodbye!” Lyanna shouted all-too-gleefully. Jon cleared his throat. Her face fell, but then she smiled – truly smiled. “Goodbye Egg,” she said sweetly. “And I hope you don’t sink in the Neck.” Daenerys rolled her eyes.

Aemon’s farewell was wordless and tearful. He clung to his older brother, pressing his face into Aegon’s doublet and locking his arms around his brother’s thin frame. Aegon, to his credit, comforted the boy with kind words but soon looked to his parents for aid. 

“It’s only a year or so, Aemon,” Jon said, picking up his younger son and setting him down next to his mother. Daenerys looked at her husband and he at her. This parting scene was a familiar one, well-practiced but never welcome.

He offered her an uncertain smile. “It will only be a fortnight, nothing more.”

“I know,” she told him. Then she kissed him. Aegon coughed and looked away pointedly. Lyanna made a sort of gagging sound. “Be safe, the both of you.”

Knowing it was time, she turned and walked away from the stables back to the low marble steps. Another armored figure emerged from the inner halls, but he wore no helm upon his head.

“Your Grace,” Jorah approached her from across the way, his white and gold plate gleaming as the rays of late morning sunlight hit the polished plate.

“Jorah,” she said her oldest friend’s name without any titles. They were alone here upon the steps, if only for a moment. “You will look after him, won’t you? He’s only a boy.”

“You were only a girl when you set off across the Dothraki Sea,” he countered with a smile that faltered under her gaze. “Forgive me, my queen, I only meant-”

“I know what you meant, my friend. But Aegon is not me, nor is then now. Men, even young princes, will seek what they have never had. For him, it will be freedom, danger – the excitement of the open road and sky. He’s spent so much time in this city’s it’s just…”

Jorah put a mailed hand on her shoulder – a gesture she would have allowed of no one else save her family. “You have my word, Your Grace, no harm shall befall your son.”

She nodded her head and thanked him with a soft smile. “Will you return home to Bear Island when you’re in the North?” she asked, remembering in a flash of memory that the old knight’s true home was not by her side but far and away in those cold northern waters.

Jorah raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Daenerys, but have I not just sworn to stay by the prince’s side?”

“On the journey, ser. On the journey. Once he’s within Lady Sansa’s walls…” she chuckled at the thought. Jorah joined her. Jon’s sister had not left her home in fourteen years, nor had her sons. _She’s as reluctant of letting them go as I am._ “If you can find the time, it would be good for you to visit home once more.”

“Aye, that it would,” he agreed.

Trumpets blared from near the gate. A dozen mounted men-at-arms flying the twin banners of the royal houses spurred their horses around in tight circles, readying themselves for the ride ahead. 

“I suppose I should join them,” he said, tugging at his breastplate to ensure the armor was well-secured.

“Ride well, my friend,” Daenerys bid him farewell and watched him pace across the way to join husband and son just as her two younger children ran to her side.

Together with her children, Daenerys watched as the riders circled the courtyard once more then rode through the open gates into the vast city beyond. Jon and Aegon both turned in their saddles to meet her gaze once more before they passed from sight.

Lyanna ran across the yard, bounding up the stairs of the walls to watch her father and brother from the battlements. Aemon made to join her, running as fast as his far shorter legs could carry him. She let them both go, turning back to the throne room to see to her own duties as queen.

…

The keep felt rather quiet with so many gone. She had sat the throne and tended to the affairs of state for an hour or two that afternoon, but nothing of great important had arisen from the lords and petitioners who had assembled before her.

Even so, the sun hung low in the western sky by the time she retired to the royal apartments. Servants had set out food on the table and she took her usual seat, picking at bits of fruit and bread as she breathed in the cool evening breeze off the sea.

There was a knock at the door. At first, she thought it the children. _They don’t knock._

“Enter,” she called out. The door creaked open and Samwell Tarly stepped into the room. The door creaked open as he walked into the room. His badge of office gleamed in the amber torchlight. In his hand, he held a soiled leather satchel.

“Your pardon, Your Grace, I know it’s late,” he apologized.

“Not at all. Join me,” she insisted, gesturing to an open seat across the table. Sam looked at the satchel in his hand and grimaced. “What is it you have there?”

Sam’s swallow was audible. “The envoy we sent east, to the Bay of Dragons,” he said hesitantly.

“Ser Andar Royce? Has he returned already?” Bronze Yohn’s heir had offered himself as the crown’s representative for such an important mission. _In time of peace, knights must find other ways of winning glory. No doubt he thought he might next serve as Hand._  

Sam’s eyes went wide and he reached into the satchel and pulled out a small black object. Daenerys recoiled at the sight. _A head…_ It was tarred black and shrunken, but easily recognizable all the same.

“There was no scroll? No letter?” she asked her Hand. 

“None,” he said grimly. “But…” he turned the head in his hand. Where there might have been a face, there was something else – something worse. A gleaming golden mask - with twisting horns rising upward - had been secured to the head with two iron nails through the eyes. “I’m not sure what it means.”

“I am,” she said, turning away in disgust and looking out over the darkening eastern sky, imaging the lands beyond. “Sit, Sam. We’ve many long nights ahead.”


	2. Grave Tidings and Gravy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Aegon ride up the Kingsroad. Daenerys speaks with trusted advisers.

**Aegon**

The countryside rolled by day after day. It all looked the same to him: Golden fields of wheat ready for harvest; green pastures filled with horses, sheep, goats and fat cattle. Small hamlets with fresh-thatched roofs where smoke rose in lazy columns into a pure blue sky.

This was not Aegon’s first time out into the countryside, of course. His mother had taken him riding through the Crownlands countless times. He had ridden down the Roseroad too, visiting Horn Hill with his father and a dozen knights. He could still remember those rolling vineyards, buzzing orchards, and his first taste of crisp Arbor gold.

_The North will be nothing like that, though._ Aegon kept his eyes fixed on the northern sky. _Soon,_ he kept telling himself. His father had promised to turn back after crossing the Trident. He and Ser Jorah would ride north together, but alone.

He loved his father – truly, he did. Yet he could not deny the allure that a few weeks of freedom on the open road would give him. _And after that, Winterfell._ Cousin Robb had promised to show him the wonders of the North in his letters. For once, he would escape the shadow of the Red Keep – the shadows of his royal parents. The northern sky promised freedom.

Aegon turned in his saddle and looked back at his father. His trim black beard and and hair marked him as a man of the North, as did the white wolf pommel of his sword and the actual wolf at his side.

His father met his gaze and smiled. “We’ll pass Harrenhall soon enough,” he said.

“Aye,” Jorah agreed. “Watch the western sky, my prince. See if you can spot old Harren’s towers in the distance.”

He looked to the west, past the fields and the trees, but saw nothing. Harrenhal had been a mighty fortress, he knew. _But left half-melted by the first Aegon during the conquest._

_What might it have been to ride with him? On the back of Balerion the Dread? Or on Drogon or Rhaegal?_ He would never know. His mother never talked much of the dragons, even now. Aegon could see the pain in her eyes whenever their names were mentioned.

He tore his gaze away from the west, looking northward once more then around to the low, green fields that continued off into the distance. Farmers, sometimes with children at their sides, dropped their tools and hurried to the edge of their plots to watch the royal procession pass.

“Your Grace!” one woman shouted, waving frantically from beside an old oak tree.

“Seven blessings Your Grace!” a man across the road joined in the call, holding his hoe high in some sort of makeshift solute. His father waved back in response as their group kept riding along the raised road.

It had always been this way. The people loved their king and queen. Every child in the Seven Kingdoms knew that Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen had wed in the North and won a desperate victory against the Night King and his legions of dead men. Then they had battled winter itself, seeing the realm through two bitter years of famine before the spring came.

Neither spoke of those dark days much, but it did not matter. Everyone else did. Bards sung of his parents’ victories in the capital’s taverns and artists wove great tapestries depicting them on dragon back. Young ladies of court giggled in fits as they discussed how fine it would be to have a romance like that of the king’s and queen’s. Many had eyed him with favor whilst they laughed into their silk sleeves.

_Well, in the south they sang those songs._ Aegon was not sure what he would find north of the Trident or in the North itself – where the fighting had been fiercest and the winter longest.

“You should wave too,” Jon said. “It’s good for them to see you.” He did and was greeted with shouts of “Prince Aegon!” in return.

_Aegon, they called me. Not ‘Egg’._ He had grown to hate that name. It sounded childish. Eggs were little boys like Aemon. He wanted to be Aegon. Aegons were kings and conquerors. They could melt castles and win kingdoms. They were heroes, beloved by high lords and smallfolk alike. They had great deeds to their names – like his own mother and father. And they had titles.

Aegon could list his parents’ titles. Some of them he would inherit in time, but others belonged to Jon or Daenerys alone. _The White Wolf. The Unburnt. Friend of the Free Folk. The Breaker of Chains._ He could almost feel the power when speaking them aloud.

_And what will they call me?_ The question weighed on him like oversized armor. Aegon did not know. He had imagined titles for himself, of course. _Conqueror. The Great._ But such titles were earned with great deeds – and he had none to his name.

Nor could he truly earn them. The realm was at peace. There were no battles to fight and no glories to be won. He might claim victory at some great tourney soon enough, but he had never been skilled with a lance and preferred to fight on foot with sword in hand.

Still, there had to be something he could do – something to prove himself worthy of his parents’ crown. _And if there is, it’s in the North._ He just knew it.

 

**Daenerys**

She was the last to climb the steps into the Tower of the Hand and the first to take her seat at the long table. Her advisors all remained standing until she took her seat.

On her right sat Samwell – in that chair that Tyrion had occupied for some many years. On her left sat Ser Davos Seaworth, their Master of Ships. His presence was not crucial to this gathering, but he had proved an able advisor and a loyal friend over the years.

Many of the other seats remained empty. The Master of Laws and Master of Coin were away on royal business. The Master of the Commons and City Mother – common folk from the Crownlands and the capital chosen to speak for the people – had not been summoned either.

Two familiar figures sat at the other end of the table. Missandei and Grey Worm had been her companions ever since leaving Astapor those many years ago. She valued their advice highly. _Especially in circumstances like these._

Finally, her eyes found the pale, bald head of her spymaster. Varys had changed little over the years. His was more lined, yes, but his mind was as sharp as ever. His knowing eyes met hers, then fell toward the middle of the table where Sam had placed the leather satchel from a few nights ago. He raised an eyebrow.

“Samwell, if you would,” Daenerys motioned at the odd centerpiece. He stood and pulled at the leather, revealing the scuffed golden mask underneath. Missandei’s gasp was audible.

“Sons of the Harpy,” Grey Worm said in disgust.

“We received this just a few days ago,” Daenerys explained. “Nailed the head of the envoy we sent east almost a year ago.”

“Lord Andar?” Davos asked.

“Yes,” she responded. “A rider has been sent to Runestone to inform Lord Royce.”

“His last son and heir,” Davos said. “He’ll call for blood.”

“He will want answers first,” Daenerys said. “I had hoped Lord Varys might provide some.” She had asked the spymaster to look into the matter the night Samwell had brought the tarred head to her chambers. It was too much to hope for news from across the world in but a few days, but the man’s flock of ‘little birds’ could be counted on to provide information in due course.

Varys hummed, words resting on the tip of his tongue. “What news I have from the east is grim, I fear.”

“Share it. I do not doubt we have all heard worse,” she said.

“You left the old slave masters bent when you sailed for Westeros, my queen, but not broken. The blood of Old Ghis binds them together – as does their hatred of you.”

“I left freedmen in charge, not masters,” she replied.

“Slavery does not simply cease beyond the waters of Slaver’s Bay, Your Grace,” Varys explained. “No doubt the merchants of Volantis and the masters of New Ghis have conspired to aid their old allies.”

“So now masters rule in Meereen once more?” Missandei asked.

“Difficult to say,” Varys hummed. “But if they’re powerful enough to seize a Westerosi lord, then I would expect graver tidings still from the east and-”

“Men halfway across the world pose no threat to the realm,” Davos insisted. Daenerys held up her hand to allow Varys to continue. He did.

“Perhaps not, my lord. Yet they might well have the ships to sail against us, should they desire war,” he said grimly.

“Do they?” she asked. _I have no dragons to destroy them now._

“You nearly destroyed the slavers and their families, Your Grace. Such actions, even if they are just, are not easily forgotten,” Varys explained. “With the fleets of New Ghis, Yunkai, and Meereen they could transport an army to our shores… and there is another whose ships still ply those eastern waters as well.” _Greyjoy._

Euron had fled when the capital fell, taking half a hundred ship across the Narrow Sea and vowing to seek his vengeance on his niece and nephew and the queen they supported. _I thought him dead in some storm or slain by pirates._

“The Silence still sails, then, does it?” Davos asked.

“It does,” Varys replied. “Kraken sails were last spotted near Lys over a year ago.” Silence settled among the councilors for a moment, each attendant was lost in thought. Daenerys gathered hers.

“I want to know what is happening in the old slaver cities. I want to know where Euron is and what he is doing. Should they decide to raise swords and sails against us, I want to hear of it at once,” she addresses her advisors.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Varys nodded his bald head low in acknowledgement of the order.

“Grey Worm and I will watch the city and harbor for ships from the east, too,” Davos added.

“Very well,” Daenerys said, eyeing the mask as she spoke. “And thank you. We must remain wary. We’ve not labored for fourteen years only to have our peace broken by lesser men.” She stood. With a scraping on wood on stone, the others did as well.

One by one they filtered away, save Missandei. She was her oldest friend – save Jorah – and her constant companion. _Like an aunt to my children… and the closest thing to a sister I have._

“My queen,” she said, giving a little bow as Daenerys rounded the table and walked to her.

“My friend,” she replied with a warm smile. “Walk with me to my chambers, would you?”

They had only made it past the gates when Missandei’s questions burst forth from her mouth. “You don’t think they would sail here, do you?”

“The slavers?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes,” she said. _She’s frightened._ It had been years since Missandei of Naath had taken back her freedom at Daenerys’ side. _But a collar can leave marks forever._

“No,” her answer was emphatic. “They are weak men, more concerned with gold and comfort than revenge. They would not risk the voyage, let alone battle.”

Her friend hummed in agreement as they passed descended from the tower and crossed into the well-lit royal apartments. As they reached the door to the rooms themselves – and the two golden-armored knights standing on either side of them - Missandei stepped away and dismissed herself with a bow.

The knight on the right wordlessly pushed the door open. Daenerys entered and beheld a table piled high with half-eaten scraps. Her heart sank at the sight. She had forgotten dinner with her children. _Aemon is probably asleep by now, and Lyanna..._

Steel glinted in the flickering torchlight. She turned toward the balcony and saw her daughter lounging back in a fine, cushioned chair. She was tossing a cutting knife up into the air, watching it spin end over end before catching it by the handle. She turned and eyed her mother for a heartbeat, then thought better of it and pointedly looked away.

“I told you not to do that,” Daenerys said, walking over to the balcony.

“I know,” Lyanna said defiantly as she flipped the knife up again and caught it in her left hand. Daenerys sighed and shook her head. Her daughter had always been like this. _Headstrong. Stubborn._ It was Jon who could get her to stop. _Or laugh._ Daenerys had always hoped for a daughter – and her love for Lyanna was as deep as the sea itself – but of late the girl had seemed distant.

“If your father were here-”

“He’s not,” Lyanna cut her off. “He’s riding up the Kingsroad with Egg.” She flipped the knife into the air once more. _This again._

“Your brother is going to foster with your aunt and cousins at Winterfell,” Daenerys said.

“Why does Egg get to go North while I’m stuck here?”

“This is our home,” Daenerys replied, hearing the exasperation in her own voice. Lyanna huffed in annoyance, but did not answer.

If there were gods, they had a twisted sense of humor. _For years I longed for home and family. I fought for home and family. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion died so that my children might live._ Yet here her daughter sat before her, eyes on the darkened horizon, longing for the world outside these walls and away from her parents and brothers.

“It’s late,” she said at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “You should get to bed. I had hoped you might help me at court tomorrow.”

That, it seemed, was precisely the wrong thing to say. An odd sound like a wolf’s snarl escaping Lyanna’s lips. She flung the knife against the balcony’s low columns and stormed past her mother. In the distance, Daenerys heard a door slam. She sighed into the night air and looked off toward the north, wishing Jon would return soon.

 

**Jon**

They had arrived at the Trident late in the day. Dappled golden light streamed through the trees and fell upon the waters of the great river. The inn – where they would rest tonight – was just across the water.

“The Ruby Ford,” Jorah said, looking around the southern banks. _Is it?_ Jon had only crossed the river a handful of times, but never here. He might never had known the spot if not for his friend’s words.

_This is where he died._ He knew the stories – how Rhaegar had met Robert on horseback amidst the rushing waters… and how he had died there, whispering Lyanna’s name with his final breath.

He tried to imagine the armies of the North, the Vale, the Riverlands and Stormlands massed on the far bank, awaiting the royal forces… only he could not. The bodies he saw were broken, their weapons old and armor rusted. Their eyes burned blue.

“Aye,” he said, blinking his eyes and brushing away the memory. “The waters look low enough. The crossing should be easy.”

And it was. The small party forded in the river with little difficulty. Jon had ridden behind Aegon, watching his son maneuver his horse with patience and determination. His silver hair shone in the late afternoon light. _A silver haired prince crossing the ford._ He could not push the thought away.

His two sons took after their mother – and looked like the perfect Targaryen princes. He wondered in Rhaegar had looked the same. There were not images of his father in the Red Keep. Robert Baratheon had smashed them all to kindling just as Stannis had done on Dragonstone. Only myth and memory kept his father alive.

Crowds of smallfolks greeted them as they entered the small town that had sprung up around the inn. Young women held plump young babes to their breasts whilst children stood wide-eyed at him, his son, and the dozen or so knights that had ridden with them from the capital.

The innkeeper himself emerged from the inn. He was a portly man, near enough Jon’s own age, with great curls of dark hair and a kind, clean-shaven face. His expression was fixed halfway between shock and excitement.

“Your Grace,” he called out. “Didn’t know you was coming, with the prince and all.”

Jorah dismounted and walked to the man. “We’ll need rooms for his Grace and the prince, another half-dozen or so for the guard, and room in the stables as well.”

“Of course, m’knight, ser. Of course,” the innkeeper said, his chins wobbling as he spoke. “’Arry!” he shouted back through the door. A portly young lad, who could only be the innkeep’s son, emerged to stand by his father’s side. “See to the horses, then fetch bread and ale. I’ll find m’lords their rooms.”

The party swiftly dismounted and entered the inn as their horses were led away. The hall fell silent as they found their seats. Men muttered into their cups and looked on with wonder. Aegon led the way forward. His eagerness was palpable as he found a long table and sat by the head, but not at it. He saved that chair for Jon.

The innkeeper’s son brought them tankards of weak ale and fresh brown bread in short order. Jon thanked and tore into a warm roll as his son drank deeply from his cup. It felt good to sit after so many days in the saddle. It felt even better to share a quiet moment with Aegon, even if neither said a word just now.

Behind him, he heard Jorah pull out a coin purse and offer it to the boy. “With the king’s thanks,” he said, extending the pouch of gold. The boy’s eyes went wider still and he accepted the gold with a stumbling boy. “And bring some strong ale for the rest of the inn, hmm?” The pronouncement produced cheers from the other tables and set the inn back to a boisterous atmosphere.

“M’thanks, Ser…” he paused, looking over the knight.

“Mormont. Ser Jorah Mormont,” Jorah said.

“Ser, Arry,” the innkeeper called out as emerged from around the bend carrying two great pewter plates laden with roasted meats. “Ser means he’s a knight.”

The boy Arry smiled at Jorah as he tucked the coin purse away. “I figured you was a knight,” he said. Jorah raised an eyebrow. “Cause you’ve got armor on.” The rest of the table chuckled.

“Perhaps I slew a knight and took in from him,” Jorah replied, stifling a rare smile.

“Did you?” Arry asked, his eyes seeming to reach the size of his father’s pewter plates.

“Arry!” the innkeeper called out as he set the plates down in front of Jon. “Go fetch more ale, then.” The boy bowed his head then ran off. “Beg your pardon, then. Boy’s full of questions. We’re not used to hosting kings and princes, see.”

“Only for the night,” Jon said. “Then we’ll be on our way.”

“North,” Aegon said. “To Winterfell.”

The innkeeper laughed. “Heard of Winterfell, I have. Your own sister told me much about it, Your Grace.”

“Did she?” Jon asked in some surprise. “You know Arya?”

“Course I do,” he laughed. “We was runnin’ from the Lannisters years ago.”

Faded memories of long forgotten conversations with his sister rushed to the forefront of Jon’s thought. _The inn at the Crossroads…_ “You must be Hot Pie,” he said with a smile.

“Well, that’s what they call me, but m’proper name is-”

There was a great crash and clattering of wooden stools and tankards from across the inn. Hot Pie’s son had tripped on the floor and sent streams of frothy ale flying across the room. The innkeeper begged their pardon and turned to attend to the mess.

The royal party turned to their plates and ate their food with gusto. “S’good,” Aegon spewed out his compliment through bits of chewed meat. Jon nodded in agreement before washing down his own helping with more ale.

The boy Arry carried out meat pies for the tables too, along with a flagon filled with…

“Gravy!” he said in response to Jon’s questioning look. “Can’t forget about the gravy, can you Your Grace?” Jon only laughed as he set the flagon down and ran back to the kitchens.

He and the others dipped bread into the gravy and drowned their pies in it. Even the kitchens of the Red Keep could not produce so fine a taste. The knights ate with gusto and drained their tankards quickly.

Soon enough their bellies were full and their vision hazy. Aegon had moved to Jorah’s side and was talking spiritedly about the houses and keeps of the North. To his credit, Jorah did his best to entertain the young prince and answer his every question. Jon looked on with a smile, but felt his spirits damped some. _I was raised in the North,_ he thought. Yet Aegon had not deigned to ask him about his own home in six days of riding northward.

Jon looked around the inn. The candles burned low and the boisterous conversations had faded away. He saw a man yawn, opening his mouth to reveal uneven yellow teeth. The sight made him yawn too.

The innkeeper’s son showed them to their rooms. They were not quite as spacious as the royal apartments or any of the holdfasts they had lodged in on the ride northward, but they were warm and comfortable all the same. He disrobed and listened to two of the Kingsguard argue over who was to stand sentry first. Low thunder rolled in the distance as he drifted off to sleep.

The morning dawned wet and grey. It continued that was for quite a while. The royal party broke their fast on eggs, bacon, and bread before dawning cloaks and venturing out into the summer rain.

Their horses were saddled and assembled before the inn. Most of the knights, Jon’s own guard, were quick to mount and lead their horses to the southern fork of the crossroads. He turned to his son.

Aegon had pulled his own traveling cloak over his silver hair. Yet beneath it he wore a smile. His violet eyes found his father’s grey ones as he approached.

“Well…” Jon began.

“Goodbye, father,” Aegon said. He shuffled his feet awkwardly for a moment, as if moving to hug Jon but then thinking better of it.

“Goodbye,” Jon smiled reassurdly at him. “And ride well, hmm?”

“I will.”

“I know it. And I know your mother will have a raven waiting for you at Winterfell,” he laughed. Aegon did too, but the mirth did not reach his eyes.

“Are you ready, my prince?” Jorah called from the where the Kingsroad continued off to the north. Aegon turned around, nodded, then looked back at Jon. He was impatient – or simply eager to get on with it. Jon did not begrudge him that.

Father and son parted then, with Jon walking off to the south and mounting his own horse. He turned and looked toward the northbound pair once more. Aegon did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically the four POVs I'm doing are Jon, Dany, Aegon, and Lyanna. 
> 
> It's pretty entertaining trying to imagine what their family would be like. Obviously you saw here that Aegon feels the pressure of his parents' legendary status, but also wants some of that for himself. Maybe Lyanna does too, but she's stuck at home. 
> 
> And as for Jon and Daenerys, just because you're good at winning battles and saving people doesn't make you the world's finest parent.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully that was enjoyable! If you liked it, leave a comment. If you didn't, leave two. I dreamt up a general plan for where this story will go, but it's much more open and free so I'll happily take suggestions, critiques, and requests (where they make sense). 
> 
> Have an excellent weekend.


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